


Balance

by R00bs_Teacup



Series: Canon Compliant Universe [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Brothers, Canon Era, Family, Friendship, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-18 10:24:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5924965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This arose from 'Knight Takes Queen', when Porthos ruffles the stable boy's hair and picks straw out. That relationship, and where it leads, and Porthos learns that sometimes being a big brother is about going unseen. This is about family, found and made, and building relationships and community.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Balance

**Author's Note:**

> I am basing their backstories off my other fic (http://archiveofourown.org/works/5713033/chapters/13161538), and a reply to a comment asking about Richelieu and Aramis's background in said fic (http://archiveofourown.org/comments/49527223). You don't need to read either. I'm just leaving this here in case you're wondering about where I got background info- I made it all up. Basically. It's not from the series, or the books, really. 
> 
> This has not been edited properly, and it's got nowhere near a beta. I'll re-read it at some point and correct things I notice, but for now, it is what it is. If you notice something specific like a continuity error or a spelling error, feel free to point it out, but please please don't comment on general SPaG, because I write fanfic as fun, and editing is work. If you want something polished, you're reading the wrong writer.

“Duck... that's it. You're quick on your feet, so you want to play the avoi- oi!” Porthos roars with laughter, the clang of steel mere background.

 

Athos, sat against the wall while Aramis is on watch, on the roof, gets up and turns, leaning over to watch. Porthos is sparring, but not with any of recruits. With the stable boys. Athos sighs. Aramis nudges him and grins.

 

“How long?” Athos asks.

 

“Couple of months. One of the lads saw d'Artagnan's arrival as an opportunity, and asked him for lessons. Bold as you like.”

 

“And Porthos said yes?”

 

“Nah. Course not. Porthos, being Porthos and the weather being overly warm-”

 

“Don't tell me. Porthos fought him.”

 

“Yes. He was very nice about it, and let them win. Eventually.”

 

“Them?”

 

“Yes. There were a few lads backing up the bold one, and... I think there were eight of them. Piled on top of Porthos like puppies.”

 

There's a yelp down in the courtyard, then a bellow.

 

“I'd say one of them just nicked him,” Aramis says, squinting.

 

“Got his knuckles,” Athos says.

 

The boy Porthos is fighting isn't bad. He's got a good bit of footwork and he keeps his sword up, and he's wary of attacking. People quite often look at the way Porthos holds a sword and go for him. Porthos might not be the best, but he's very good. He just has ingrained bad habits. Porthos, down bellow, drops his sword and runs at the boy, taking them both off their feet and rolling into the on-lookers legs, sending them scattering and falling.

 

“Is he teaching them to use a sword the way he does?” Athos asks.

 

“I believe he is suggesting they study your form for tips. Haven't you noticed your audience recently?”

 

“I thought they were admirers,” Athos says, though he'd actually been going a bit mad wondering why the stable boys kept staring at him. “I'm going to go tell Porthos off.”

 

“Good luck.”

 

“We need a bit of excitement around here. If everyone's watching him fight children...” Athos trails off.

 

He ducks inside and runs down, breaking out into the courtyard in time to see Amyot pulling Porthos to his feet. Porthos is laughing. He offers a hand to his sparring partner and claps him on the shoulder.

 

“You're gettin' good,” Porthos says, smiling. “Nearly had me, there.”

 

“I got you. I drew first blood,” the boy says, indicating Porthos's bleeding knuckles.

 

“Very well,” Porthos says, bowing, plucking his hat off the ground as he straightens. “Ah, Athos!”

 

“Yes,” Athos says.

 

“Uh oh,” Porthos says. “Jacques, off you go. Aramis will set us up some targets an' be all critical tomorrow, so come find us when you're out of work.”

 

“Aramis,” Athos says.

 

“Oops, did I drop 'im in it?” Porthos says, turning away from Jacques and giving Athos his full attention. “Am I in trouble?”

 

“What do you think?” Athos says.

 

“They want to learn. We took Jacques to that convent and he had no experience firin' a gun, no skill with a sword, and his fighting had been limited to brawling with his brothers. All older, all protective of the scrawny brat. They're not soldiers, but working here, they might easily end up fighting.”

 

“When you put it like that,” Athos says.

 

“Besides, he wants to learn. If Constance can, why not Jacques?”

 

“Constance?”

 

“Ah.”

 

Athos sighs, putting his arm around Porthos's shoulder. He can see a way out of this.

 

“Tell you what,” Athos says. “Get me drunk enough to forget, and we'll pretend I've forgotten all of this.”

 

“You're on,” Porthos says, looping his arm around Athos's waist, smiling broadly.

 

Athos forgets it all. When he feels the boys' eyes on him, though, he corrects his stance and makes his movements clear, carefully removes all bad habits. One day he watches Porthos lose repeatedly, to people Athos knows he can beat, in ways Athos knows are carefully concealed but definitely purposeful. It confuses him, but then he watches Porthos laugh it off, congratulate his opponent, accept their hand up and show clear signs of affection afterwards. Athos loses a few times, too, and imitates Porthos's good reactions.

 

He watches Porthos teaching the boys how to wrestle and sword fight and shoot, watches Aramis come and bicker with Porthos over technique, somehow both of them managing to give the boys clear direction through their idle arguments. He watches d'Artagnan spar with them all. d'Artagnan's skill with a sword is beginning to be tempered by experience, now, and he's a real challenge to both Aramis and Porthos with a blade. Porthos usually resorts to tackling d'Artagnan when he gets bored. Athos has experience of that.

 

They're sat at the tavern, one day, Aramis and d'Artagnan on duty (or one of the other of them on duty, and one or the other of them keeping company. Or it might be Porthos or Athos who's supposed to be on duty. These things blur). Amyot is trying to win back his month's wages from Porthos, and Porthos seems to be letting him. He keeps gazing at Athos. It's making Athos uncomfortable, so he picks up his bottle and wanders over, sitting next to Porthos and peering at his cards, which Porthos always hates.

 

"Alright, alright," Porthos grumbles, tossing his hand down. "I'm out, Amyot. I have to go assuage grumpy."

 

"Come one, just one more hand. Give me a chance to get it back," Amyot says.

 

Porthos shrugs and tosses Amyot's written promise of his wages onto the table, getting up and stretching. Athos frowns. It must be important, if Porthos is willing to give up money for it. Whatever it is that's making Porthos stare at him. Amyot snatches up the paper before Porthos can change his mind and charges out, leaving his hat. Porthos picks it up and grins, poking his finger through a hole.

 

"I did this," Porthos says, wiggling his finger.

 

"I remember," Athos says.

 

"Over here," Porthos says, retreating to Athos's previous corner table, Amyot's hat under his arm. Athos follows and offers Porthos a drink. Porthos drains half the bottle, then wipes his mouth and burps loudly, sitting back, giving Athos the long assessing look again.

 

"What?" Athos snaps, taking the bottle back.

 

"Uh uh," Porthos says, pulling the bottle out of Athos's grasp and out of his reach. "Tell me, first. Answer my question."

 

"What question?"

 

"Jacques. Musketeer. Yes or no?"

 

"He could join up, do some soldiering, make a name for himself. He's not bad with a blade."

 

"He learnt all 'a that in a few months."

 

"Are you asking if I think he could skip the soldier part? We all go for soldiers, first."

 

"You didn't," Porthos says, tone bordering on belligerent. "d'Artagnan didn't. Aramis was in the army for a month, if that, before Richelieu picked him out."

 

"Jacques has no family to buy him a commission. I cannot change that. It is just the way things are. He must earn it, like you did."

 

"d'Artagnan earned it too," Porthos says. "No soldiering."

 

"d'Artagnan's father knew Treville, d'Artagnan had our backing, d'Artagnan joined at a time when war was inconceivable. Besides, d'Artagnan was very determined and bloody minded about it."

 

"Jacques could be, and we could back 'im. He's good, i'n't he?"

 

"He's average."

 

"You could train 'im up. He learnt it all in a few months, you could do a good bit with him."

 

"Why are you so against him being a soldier?" Athos asks, leaning forward to catch Porthos's eyes as they skitter away. Athos takes advantage of Porthos avoiding his gaze to get the wine back, which also gets him Porthos's attention. "Was it so bad?"

 

"I was a scrawny, mixed race, street kid, Athos. I had no training with a blade, or a gun. Hell, I'd never held neither of 'em. I could fight, I could use me hands, but that was it. I was a kid, I was unwanted and uncared for and soldiering isn't like the Musketeers. There's camaraderie, but not brotherhood the same way. We'd look out for one another but not like family. I hadn't got anyone to get my back. I slept with one eye open. I had to fight for any kind of acknowledgement or respect. Any job that was better'n digging the pits, or collecting the wood. Half my scars are from people who thought I never should've left the court. For the first few years, it was worse than you can imagine."

 

"You never really say much about it."

 

"Because I endured it, I lived through it, and I earned their respect with my life-blood. I saved 'em and I fought and I kept fighting and I demanded and kicked and bit and practised every waking hour until I could beat 'em at their own game, till I could beat 'em with a sword or a gun or wrestling. I won. After that, it wasn't so bad. I got their respect. I taught myself to be what everyone wanted, who they liked. I like people, I like talkin', but all 'a this? The story telling, the boasting, the loud... all of it. It was carefully crafted. I'm noticed, the moment I go anywhere. I stand out. So I got to find a way to stand out that doesn't threaten, and doesn't back down. I got to find a way of demanding, without rubbing people the wrong way. Yeah, I endured and I lived, but you got no clue who I was before, or what I cut away, or what I gave up. You got no idea about the scars."

 

"You want to protect Jacques."

 

"If I did, I'd persuade him of staying a stable boy. Nah, he can look to himself, he can. He's sharp. He'll do fine. There's things there that I don't want beat out of him, though. There's goodness and kindness that he'd have no use for, there. Those aren't worth giving up."

 

"This scar," Athos says, reaching over to touch the line that cuts Porthos's eye vertically. Porthos covers the hand and shuts his eyes, pressing Athos's thumb to the lid so Athos can feel the ridge there, feel just how close it went.

 

"It's not much of a story. My eyes'd strayed where they shouldn't, or so it was said. Never learnt what exactly I was supposed to have not seen, but they made me understand keeping me mouth shut was the way to go."

 

"And the one..." Athos works his thumb under Porthos's collar and pushes it into the divot between collar bone and shoulder.

 

"That's old, older'n I remember."

 

"The one on your thigh? Right at the top?"

 

Porthos shakes his head. Athos waits, passes the wine across. Porthos gulps some down, then shrugs. Athos waits.

 

"I beat someone, sparring. Sword work. He was noble, I was still obviously a gutter rat with no friends. Thought he'd make sure I didn't walk away from a skirmish. I happened to have took the weapons from one of our enemies, an' I just left it behind in him. No one ever knew."

 

"Porthos," Athos says. cupping Porthos's cheek. Porthos smiles, warm and affectionate. "How do you retain so much joy, so much trust, so much innocence?"

 

"I haven't got a speck of innocence left," Porthos says. "Innocence. What is that, anyway? It's nothing, really. Somethin' made up. Innocence. Nah, not me. I have just as much dark inside as you. I just don't bury it so deep. Let it come out 'a me, here and there, where it doesn't matter. Got to let the bitterness out, or it'll twist you up. Saw plenty of that, back in the Court."

 

"I'll teach Jacques, with a blade."

 

Porthos beams at him, all weariness and sadness dropping away. Athos shakes his head is bewilderment, admiring Porthos's ability to live through such things and...

 

"Endure isn't right," Athos says. "Thrive. You thrive."

 

"Alright. You'll teach 'im? We'll get him good and ready, then he can tag along, like d'Artagnan did."

 

"He's still very young."

 

"So we've got time. Got a few lads'll join as footsoldiers next time Dessessart comes calling. Some want to stay as stable hands."

 

Athos takes Porthos home, letting him talk the night away about his plans for the boys, telling Athos the little things that Porthos learnt about each, all the things that make them special. To Porthos, they are all special, as well. Athos sits, once Porthos falls asleep, watching him.

 

The musketeers start calling the boys Porthos' ducklings. They follow him about, and one day Amyot says Porthos is like a mother duck, and it sticks. It paints Porthos as mother, and Athos half expects Porthos to object, but Porthos pretends not to notice the taunts. They're all friendly. Porthos has long earned respect, now. Porthos still turns his head away from it, and his ducklings take his lead.

 

All but Jacques.

 

Jacques challenges people to duels and gets into sparring matches that end in fighting and drawn blood. He fights like d'Artagnan- all passion, composure vanishing. He's slower than d'Artagnan, but still manages to cause plenty of trouble. Aramis eggs him on, Porthos tells him how to fight dirty (when it becomes clear Jacques will ignore all suggestions that he not use his newly aquired skills).

 

Athos teaches him how to tell the balance of a blade before he picks it up, teaches him how to balance himself, how to feel the blade and hold it and turn it, how to meet a blow and duck and weave, how to attack and faint and parry. Athos teaches him footwork, going over steps slowly, over and over and over until it's embedded deep into Jacques muscle-memory. Then they fight, and Athos fights to win, using every trick and every move he knows to throw Jacques off, pushing him and pushing him until Jacques takes Porthos's lead and charges Athos.

 

Once he decides to do it, Athos does the job well. He puts Jacques through every exercise he remembers from when he and Thomas learnt. He makes Jacques stand balanced on a narrow fence for hours at a time without moving, makes him walk up and down increasingly narrow fences, makes him balance on one foot, makes him run for miles until he can do it without becoming breathless. Athos does it all without smiles or praise or coddling.

 

Porthos still spars with Jacques, they still tumble about. Jacques goes to Porthos after long days of Athos on top of work on top of having to help pay for his family. Porthos feeds the lad, gives him wine to drink, ruffles his hair, picks the detritus of the day off him, brushes dust away.

 

"Will you let me be a musketeer, if I keep on like this?" Athos hears Jacques asking Porthos one day.

 

"I'm working on it, aren't I?" Porthos says. "Can't work a miracle, Jacques. Athos's lessons will help, I promise. You've got to be the best, get the king's attention some'ow. I'm thinkin' of a plan."

 

"When I'm a musketeer, can I join you? And d'Artagnan and Aramis and Athos?"

 

"Sure," Porthos says.

 

He means it, too. Athos knows he means it.

 

In the end, Porthos attaches Jacques to Amyot. The given up gambling debts, Amyot winning, Amyot's hat suddenly being hole free when returned, all makes sense to Athos the day he sees Jacques riding out with Amyot, Porthos watching. Athos never forgets about Porthos's intelligence, but he does sometimes over-look just how good at manipulating people he is.

 

It takes Amyot three months to get Jacques noticed, and then it's by the queen rather than the king. It takes a further two months for that to translate into a commission, and then it's in Dessessart's company, not the musketeers. Jacques accepts it anyway, much to Porthos's disappointment. Porthos's disappointment lasts the month it takes Jacques to get himself promoted to the musketeers, using skills apart from fighting that Athos recognises from Porthos.

 

When Jacques comes back, uniform proudly attached, he heads for Amyot and two of the new recruits. Porthos watches, standing back and allowing it, but Athos sees the hurt, quickly hidden. Jacques comes to thank Porthos, but he never takes up the fifth spot among them that Porthos has carefully made for him. Athos sits next to Porthos, two weeks into Jacques's musketeers career, as Jacques rides out with Amyot and Matthias.

 

"You did well for the boy," Athos says.

 

"Yeah," Porthos agrees, beaming with pride, the hurt all-but-invisible.

 

"Family has the power to hurt us more than anyone else. You've had more reason than most to learn that, and yet you always forget it."

 

"He means nothing by it," Porthos says. "Anyway, by what? What's he done? I don't know why..."

 

"You wanted him to stay with you. It's like he no longer needs you, so you have no place in his life," Athos says. Porthos looks at him, gaping. "Thomas was my younger brother. He followed me around like I was his God, until one day, he didn't anymore. I thought it would be a relief. It wasn't."

 

"I dunno. Not the same, is it?"

 

"You care for people as though they're family, instinctively. You love people... I've not seen it before."

 

"Sometimes you have no clue about things, Athos, and then, here we are," Porthos says. "I guess I just let him go, eh?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Take me home?"

 

They go to Athos's rooms, away from the garrison. They play cards. d'Artagnan comes to find them, later in the afternoon, asking Porthos questions about sword technique and hand to hand, then asks Porthos for advice about Constance, then makes sad noises until Porthos gives him a hug. Aramis arrives at some point as evening's coming and begs Porthos to feed him, complains about a stubborn crick in his neck until Porthos soothes it away with careful hands, drops a few hints about an ill advised love affair he's considering and then lets Porthos talk him out of it.

 

"They're not very subtle," Porthos mutters to Athos, when d'Artagnan's gone for more bread, and Aramis is relieving himself outside somewhere. Hopefully not just in the street.

 

"Who aren't?" Athos asks.

 

"Those two. Makin' me feel like they need me."

 

"Oh. That's what they're doing. No, not terribly subtle. Shall I have a go at it?"

 

"You don't need to," Porthos says, beaming at him, reaching over to tug him into a headlock. "You always need me, Athos de le Fère. Useless, you are. You'd be utterly lost without me."

 

"I admit nothing," Athos says.

 

"Ha. What'd you be doing this afternoon, if I hadn't brought you here? Drinking your money away. What'd you be using to pay your rent this month, if I hadn't got you money? You're hopeless, since you stopped getting income from your estate. What'd you have done yesterday-"

 

"Yes, yes," Athos says. "Alright. You make my life go more smoothly, I admit it."

 

"Go more smoothly?" Aramis says, returning. "Athos, without us you'd be dead in a ditch."

 

"Yeah," d'Artagnan says, tossing Porthos a loaf of bread. "And without us, you'd not even get a beautiful funeral."

 

"Exactly," Porthos says, making himself comfortable on Athos's bed, helping himself to Athos's wine, and tearing himself off some bread that was bought with Athos's gold.

 

Athos snorts, but gives in with good grace. They're not wrong, afterall. He doesn't know what he'd be without them. Probably not very sober, but beyond that...

 

Not very happy, either, he thinks, looking at Porthos. Porthos glances at him questioningly, then smiles and pats the bed beside him. Athos goes to join him, soaking up some of his warmth. Porthos rubs Athos's back until Athos relaxes, talking loudly to Aramis about how stupid he is to even consider falling in love with the lady Mary all the while, and castigating d'Artagnan for drinking wine without lining his stomach properly first, throwing hunks of bread at d'Artagnan's head for him to eat.

 

When Amyot returns, Jacques comes and sits with Porthos. Athos is on duty, Porthos is sprawled against the wall at his side, reading. The book has small print and Porthos is using his finger to keep track of where he is, mouthing his way through it. He stops when Jacques comes and sits beside him, embarrassed. Athos nudges him until he smiles again.

 

"Was it a good assignment?" Porthos asks Jacques, closing his book but without seeming ashamed about it.

 

"It was boring," Jacques says, stretching and yawning. "It's cold, and it rained, and nothing happened."

 

"One 'a those assignments," Porthos says, darkly.

 

"I, uh, got my first wages," Jacques says. "I got you something. To repay a small bit of what you've done for me."

 

"You spent good food money on something for me?" Porthos says. "Fool."

 

Jacques ignores that and draws a short knife from his belt.

 

"I got the blade done proper," Jacques says. "My brother made the handle, though. I made this. With my father's help."

 

Jacques unbuckles something from his wrist. He fits the knife into it, the blade sheathed in thick leather. He buckles it onto Porthos's forearm, then presses something. The blade flicks out, handle thumping into Porthos's palm. Porthos stares at it, face slowly brightening, eyes wondering. Athos watches.

 

"Do you like it?" Jacques asks.

 

Porthos doesn't say anything, just stows the blade carefully in it's leather sheath and presses the release. He does it a few times, until the movement is smooth.

 

"It's got a coil in it," Porthos says. "To make it snap out. Yeah?"

 

"Uh-huh," Jacques says.

 

Porthos nods, doing it again, face close with concentration. Then he leaps up and spins, knife coming flying out. Athos tilts his head back but otherwise stays still as Porthos holds him against the wall, blade at his throat. Porthos grins at him, fierce and delighted, then jumps back, adjusting his hold on the knife. He beckons at Jacques, hunkering down.

 

"He likes it," Athos says, turning back to his watch.

 

He listens to Porthos and Jacques sparring, Porthos laughing low and pleased every time the knife 'snnnks' out. Athos can hear it flicking out. Athos has a feeling that the blade probably cost Jacques more than his wages. He makes a note to buy too much next time he goes to the market. Better make sure the boy thrives, now that he's got his place.

 

Porthos is still playing with the knife that evening, lying on his back on Aramis's floor, going through the list of who he's going to scare with it. d'Artagnan's sat by Porthos's arm, examining the gift between Porthos flicking it out and putting it back in. Aramis is trying to talk Porthos into letting him have a try of it.

 

"Family, eh?" Porthos says, looking up at Athos.

 

"Yes," Athos says, thinking of Thomas. Then, he thinks of Porthos, and everything lightens. "Yes, family."

 

Porthos beams at him, then leaps off the floor and tackles Aramis, making him shriek with surprise. Porthos bellows with laughter, flicking out the knife and forcing Aramis still beneath him, not letting up until Aramis admits to being afraid.

 

"Family," d'Artagnan says, getting up and joining Athos. "Us, right?"

 

Athos inclines his head in agreement.

 

"Family," Aramis says in disgust, sucking a cut finger and glaring at Porthos until Porthos puts the knife away.

 

 

 


End file.
